Prey
by Joodiff
Summary: Sometimes people aren't as anywhere near as vulnerable as they might look... Complete. T for a bit of language. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

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**Prey**

by Joodiff

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He spots them immediately, his predatory instinct automatically taking hold. They're not the only potential targets moving through the London night, but to Nathan, in that moment, they are by far the most likely. He's not sure where they've come from – one of the nearby theatres, maybe, or a restaurant – but nor does he care. What matters more to him is where they are going. Enticingly, it looks as if they're heading straight into the near-deserted side-streets, presumably back to their car. They're not tourists, he's fairly sure of that. They seem far too relaxed, far too comfortable in their surroundings and far too certain of their route. What they are, though, is old. Old, and in Nathan's eyes, vulnerable. The woman is small and slight, probably a similar age to his grandmother, and he thinks that a good shove from behind would send her sprawling on the paving-slabs, leaving him with only the man to deal with.

He shadows them carefully, keeping a good distance back. No point in alerting the prey to his presence and giving it a chance to bolt away to freedom. He is a lion on the savannah, stalking the elderly antelope on the very edge of the herd. Ahead of him, his oblivious prey head into another side street, and he doesn't miss the way the man momentarily steadies his female companion, briefly grasping her elbow. Just that small interaction tells Nathan a lot, and he slows slightly, almost tempted to reconsider. The guy might be old, but he's no lightweight, and that instinctive gesture suggests he takes his protective role at the woman's side seriously.

The clawing need in Nathan is far too strong. He stays a good distance away from them, but he continues to follow, watching and waiting for the optimum moment. Tackle the woman first – push her hard, grab her handbag and run if possible. Alternatively, push her, send her sprawling and then wheel on the man, knife in hand. Most prey freezes at that point, Nathan has learnt. Most prey becomes instantly submissive in the face of a blade. Neither of them look like they're short of a penny or two, and the old guy's wallet might well be a far better prize than the old lady's handbag.

The right moment is coming. No other pedestrians in sight, just a few cars trailing past. No-one in the big city is going to stop to help a couple of strangers. It's going to be quick – as quick as Nathan can make it – and it's going to be as savage as it needs to be. He doesn't care if he hurts them or not, he just wants what he wants. He speeds up again, carefully closing the gap a little. The old couple are deep in conversation, and he hears the woman laugh; it's a soft, gentle sound, but it means nothing to him. They reach a tiny pool of darker shadows, and he knows. He is a predator, and he knows.

He reaches into his pocket, draws the knife that rests there. Cheap, mass-produced. Ugly. Short, broad blade. Sharp, though. Very sharp.

_This_ is the moment.

Nathan attacks as he always does – with speed and aggression, gambling on shock and surprise to do most of the work for him. He goes straight for the woman, as planned, the blood roaring fiercely in his ears as it pounds through his body.

He misses his target. For an instant he doesn't understand. She's not where she should be. She's not where she should be because her companion has already pushed her aside. Too fast. Far too fast. Too fast and too expertly done. That's when Nathan realises he's made a mistake. The guy's old, but Christ, he's agile. Agile and unafraid. Not just unafraid, either, but adroit. Pivots from the hip, all his weight shifting onto the secure rear foot, forearm comes up, not in blind defence, but in attack. It's like running into an iron bar, one that slams against Nathan's throat with startling speed and accuracy.

He reels, he gags and retches; he staggers off-balance, not really able to process what's happening.

Instinct makes him swing the blade in a wide arc. It's a mistake. The steely forearm blocks again, and Nathan feels the numbing impact of bone against bone jolt right up into his shoulder. Worse, his wrist is suddenly seized in a hard, immobilising grip. How the fuck can the old guy be so quick, so strong? It makes no sense. None at all.

The woman's voice is hard, sharp. "Boyd."

The old guy spares his woman the quickest of glances, but he doesn't release his grip. Instead, he pivots again, using his weight to snap Nathan's arm back against the hard edge of a dark shop doorway. It hurts, it hurts a lot. Nathan shouts and drops the knife; has no choice in the matter. His wrist is pinioned, and blazing tracks of pain are shooting from fingertips to elbow. He feels sick, he feels dizzy. He wants to run, wants to get as far away as possible from the dangerous old man with the cold eyes and the terrifying, shark-like smile. He kicks out, makes contact with something, and is rewarded by a bitter, angry curse.

This is not what should be happening. Prey shouldn't fight back like this.

Nathan feels himself being grabbed again, this time by the front of his baggy sweatshirt. The crushing grip on his wrist has gone, and for one misguided moment he thinks he's got a real chance not only to even the score, but to get away from the madman in the long dark coat. He's wrong. The world unexpectedly explodes in agony. Fucking old bastard's head-butted him straight in the face. What the _hell's_ happening here…?

The pain is screamingly intense, and it takes Nathan a few stupid moments to realise that blood's pouring from his nose. Thick gouts of it, looking jet-black in the night's shadows. Tears of agony are streaming from his eyes and when the old guy releases him, Nathan stumbles off-balance. Nothing makes any sense anymore. He's in some kind of surreal nightmare where everything's upside-down and the wrong way round. Somehow he's now down on his knees, his vision's blurry from the tears and there's blood everywhere. His blood.

Nathan looks up. The old guy is looking down at him, expression calm and reflective.

With less force and dignity than he'd like, Nathan spits, "Bastard…"

The man shakes his head slowly. It's the woman who says, "What is it about you that unfailingly attracts trouble, Boyd? A quiet night out, you said… a nice meal at a good restaurant, you said…"

"I can't be held responsible for every lowlife who decides to cause trouble, Grace."

Nathan doesn't understand. They're so calm, both of them. Absolutely unflustered. Who the _hell_ are these two?

The man stoops, picks up Nathan's knife, dangles it thoughtfully by the very tip of the blade and says, "Friendly."

"So much for an early night," the woman says, her tone heavy with resignation.

The man grunts and leans down again, this time to grab Nathan by the scruff of the neck. He feels himself being hauled upright. Everything's wrong, and the world's become a very miserable place. It becomes even more miserable when a warrant card abruptly appears in front of him. The small photograph opposite the Metropolitan Police badge is unmistakably that of the old guy. Nathan squints hard, but he can't quite make out the words printed below it.

"Detective Superintendent Boyd," the man says helpfully.

Fuck.

There's no doubt about it, Nathan thinks, still trying to stop the blood pouring from his nose. He's screwed.

Definitively and completely screwed.

The old woman sighs and gives him a reproachful sort of look before addressing her companion again. "My mother warned me about taking up with men like you."

The old guy grins at her for just a second before looking back at Nathan. "Do you want to do this the easy way, or the hard way…?"

Looking into the man's cold face, Nathan doesn't want to imagine just how hard the hard way could be. He drops his head and stares sullenly at the pavement.

What he _still_ can't quite understand is how the young, vicious predator so easily became prey to such an old man...

_- the end -_


End file.
